Chapter 10: No Going Back
The walk from the restaurant to his suite was a study in charged silence. Their hands, fingers laced now—a settled fact—swung between them. The night air was cold, but where their skin met was electric, a live wire humming up her arm. At his door, he fumbled the keycard, a clumsy, endearing moment from a man known for his poise. The green light blinked. He pushed the door open and pulled her inside.
The suite was dark, lit only by the ghostly blue wash of a vast desert moon through the wall of glass. He didn’t turn on the lights. He just turned to her, his back to the view, framing himself in star-dusted black. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs tracing the arches of her cheekbones.
“Dasha.”
Her name was a whisper, a prayer, a question. She answered by rising onto her toes and closing the last inch between their mouths.
This kiss was nothing like the drowsy, accidental communion of the night before. This was intention. This was hunger. His lips were firm, insistent, parting hers with a soft sigh that she swallowed. She tasted the remnant of red wine and the essential, clean heat of him. Her hands fisted in the soft wool of his sweater, feeling the hard planes of his chest beneath, anchoring herself as the world tilted.
He walked her backward, his mouth never leaving hers, until her shoulders met the cool, polished marble of the entry wall. The shock of cold through the silk of her dress made her gasp against his lips. He drank the sound. His hands slid from her face, down her neck, over her shoulders, pushing the thin straps of her dress down her arms. The fabric whispered over her hips and pooled in a dark circle at her ankles.
She stood before him in the monochrome moonlight, exposed. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, just to look at her. His gaze was a physical touch, warming her skin everywhere it lingered.
“You’re unreal,” he murmured, his voice rough. He kissed her again, softer now, his hands mapping the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, the swell of her hips. He found the clasp of her bra with frustrating ease, and it joined the dress on the floor. When his palms finally covered her breasts, calloused thumbs brushing over her nipples, she cried out, a short, sharp sound swallowed by the vast, quiet room.
He bent his head, his mouth hot and wet replacing his thumb, and her knees buckled. He held her up, pinning her gently to the wall with his body, his mouth working a desperation into her skin that echoed her own. Every logical thought—the schedule for tomorrow, the risk, the potential ruin—burned away in the sensory overload. There was only his mouth, his hands, the hard press of him against her stomach.
“Bed,” she managed to gasp.
“Too far.”
He lifted her, his hands under her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms locking around his neck. He carried her the few stumbling steps to a wide, low dresser, clearing it with a sweep of his arm that sent a ceramic bowl clattering to the thick rug. The cool wood met her bare skin. He stood between her legs, his hands gripping her hips, his forehead pressed to hers as they both fought for air.
Her fingers tugged at his sweater, shoving it up. He helped, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. She ran her hands over his chest, learning the landscape of him. He was all taut muscle and warm skin, a real, breathing man, not an image on a screen. She leaned forward, kissing the center of his chest, tasting salt and feeling the frantic hammer of his heart.
His fingers hooked into the sides of her panties and dragged them down. Then his hands were on her knees, pushing them wider, his eyes dark as he looked at her. The raw approval in his stare was more intoxicating than any touch. He leaned in, but not to kiss her mouth.
He dropped to his knees on the rug.
The first warm stroke of his tongue made her back arch off the dresser, a broken noise escaping her throat. Her hands flew to his hair, not to guide, just to hold on as he licked into her with a focus that was devastating. He was an actor, yes, but this was no performance. This was study, and worship, and pure, unadulterated greed. He learned her rhythms quickly, his mouth soft then demanding, until her heels were digging into his back and the world narrowed to the point where his lips met her skin.
“Matt… I’m going to…”
He didn’t let up. If anything, he doubled down, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating against her as she came apart, a silent, searing wave that shook her from the core out. She shuddered, gasping, her body pulsing under his relentless mouth until she had to push weakly at his shoulders.
He rose, his lips gleaming in the moonlight, his expression one of stark, male satisfaction. He kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue, and the intimacy of it was more shocking than anything before. She fumbled with his belt, her fingers clumsy. He helped, shoving his pants and boxers down, freeing himself. He was hard, thick, the feel of him in her hand making them both groan.
He reached for his discarded pants, patting the pockets, a frantic search. His groan this time was one of pure frustration. “Fuck. Dasha, I don’t have—”
“I know.” Her voice was breathless, raw.
He froze, his eyes locking on hers. Understanding flared, hot and dangerous. She saw the conflict—responsibility versus a need so deep it tunneled past reason. She pulled him closer by his hips, guiding him, the head of his cock nudging against her slick heat.
“I know,” she repeated, a pact and a permission.
A choked, desperate laugh escaped him. “You’ll be the death of me.”
And then he was pushing into her, and the world fractured.
It was a blunt, slow, stretching fullness that burned in the best way. She was so wet from his mouth, and so tight, that the sensation was almost too much. He sank in with a torturous, controlled slowness, his jaw clenched, sweat beading on his temple.
“Christ, Dasha,” he breathed, his forehead falling to her shoulder.
She felt every inch, the delicious, unbearable friction. When he was fully seated, they both went still, panting, adjusting. The enormity of it—the bare skin, the raw connection, the sheer risk—crashed over her. This was it. No barriers. Just them.
He moved.
The first thrust pulled a ragged moan from her lungs. The second stole her breath. Then he found a rhythm, deep and punishing, each stroke dragging over a spot inside her that made her see stars. The dresser rocked slightly against the wall with their momentum, a soft, rhythmic thud. Her nails scored his back. His mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, leaving marks he’d have to think about tomorrow.
It was reckless. It was raw. It was a silent, screaming pact sealed with every join and retreat.
The initial intensity plateaued into a deep, driving need. He slipped his arms under her, lifting her off the dresser without breaking their connection, turning and laying her back on the deep, cool leather of the sofa. The change of angle made her gasp. He followed her down, blanketing her, his weight a delicious anchor. Here, they could kiss, a messy, breathing clash of tongues and lips.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice guttural.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his. The blue was almost black, pupils blown wide, and in them she saw none of the polished actor. She saw only Matt, stripped bare, vulnerable, riding the same terrifying edge she was.
It shattered her.
Her climax rose not as a wave, but as a sudden detonation, starting deep in her core and exploding outward, seizing her muscles, blurring her vision. A raw, wordless cry tore from her throat.
Feeling her convulse around him, he lost his control. A few more frantic, deep thrusts and he followed her over, his whole body rigid, a harsh groan ripped from his chest as he spilled into her, his face buried in the curve of her neck.
The silence that followed was deafening, filled only by the ragged symphony of their breathing. He was heavy on her, a welcome weight. Slowly, the world seeped back in—the chill of the leather beneath her back, the distant cry of the coyote, the vast, indifferent desert staring through the glass.
He shifted, slipping out of her, a敏感 intimacy that made her flinch. He collapsed beside her on the wide sofa, pulling her into him, her back to his front. His arm curled around her waist, his hand splayed possessively over her stomach. His lips pressed to the knot of her spine.
They didn’t speak. Words were too small, too cheap for what had just happened. The danger of it, the sheer magnitude of their choice, hung in the air, but for now, it was drowned out by the pounding aftermath in their blood.
He nuzzled her hair, his breathing slowing. Hers began to sync with his. In the moonlit silence, wrapped in the scent of sex and his skin, Dasha closed her eyes. The logistics could wait. The fear could wait. For this moment, there was only the heat of him, the solid reality of his body against hers, and the quiet, terrifying certainty that nothing would ever be the same.